Erase and Rewind
by ArtemisXYZ
Summary: AU - Laurel's drug use has come back to bite her. Honestly, she never would've thought taking prescription meds had such big teeth, but she guessed she had Sebastian Blood to thank for that. Unfortunately, the guy isn't done. He, or whoever is pulling his strings, would never be done until Dinah Laurel Lance was no more.
1. Prologue

Dinah Laurel Lance sat on the hard bench in one of the holding cells at the precinct, waiting for...Something. For something to happen. She hugged her knees and stared at a spot on the concrete wall, trying to sort out what had happened.

Her head was still reeling. She'd been trying to uncover the truth about Sebastian Blood—she still couldn't believe her gut had been right, and she'd actually followed her instinct—enlisting the help of Arrow of all people, when shit had hit the fan and everything had gone to hell.

She'd returned home to find police raiding her place, finding all kinds of prescription and non-prescription drugs she didn't know she had lying around. Some of the prescription pills were hers, two bottles her psychiatrist had prescribed after weeks of therapy sessions—sleeping pills to help her get some rest and anti-anxiety medication for her panic attacks. Panic attacks she didn't have anymore, not for weeks, hence the barely touched bottle. The rest wasn't hers, yet the police had found loads of drugs in her apartment, placed in plain sight.

Funny how that worked. She'd had her father over for dinner right before she'd gone onto her investigative mission with Arrow, yet Quentin Lance had had no idea his daughter was abusing meds. He hadn't seen a single pill bottle lying around in her apartment, yet a few hours later, there they were.

It must've been magic.

Or someone pulling the strings.

Since Laurel didn't believe in magic, it had to be the latter.

The son of a bitch set her up! Sebastian Blood set her up. She'd come too close to the truth, and he'd done what needed to be done to shut her down. No one would believe her if she went public with what she knew. Who would take the word of a drug addict over that of the city's future mayor?

She smiled grimly. She had to give him props for his thinking. He knew what he was doing. He's ruined her reputation in one masterful stroke.

Now, here she was. Locked up. Waiting.

.

.

An hour later her boss, DA Kate Spencer, walked into the precinct lockup and stood in front of Laurel's cell, hands clasped behind her back.

"A fine mess you've gotten yourself into, Laurel," she said coldly.

Laurel looked away from the wall. "Would it help if I told you I was framed?"

"Framed?"

Laurel nodded.

Spencer sighed. "Okay, I'll bite. By whom?"

"Sebastian Blood."

Spencer laughed. "Sebastian Blood! You're saying Sebastian Blood set you up."

"Yes," Laurel said calmly. She knew no one would believe her, he'd make sure of it, but that wouldn't deter her from telling the truth.

Spencer shook her head. "It's common knowledge addicts will say anything. I talked to your psychiatrist. She claims she'd never peg you for an addict. She isn't very good. All of the prescription drugs found in your apartment were prescribed by her. Did you steal her prescription pads, Laurel?"

Laurel slowly turned her head and gaze back toward the wall.

"The appeals have already started, and you've been here less than a day," Spencer continued. "Thank you for ridiculing the office. Needless to say, you no longer work for me. I'll make sure you're disbarred. I'll charge you with possession, theft, and negligence. You're free to go, though. You made bail." Spencer paused. "Don't you want to know who paid it? It wasn't Oliver Queen, it was Sebastian Blood."

Laurel merely blinked.

"The man you're accusing of setting you up paid your bail. I'd be appropriately sorry and thankful, if I were you."

Only when her former boss left did Laurel turn her head back toward the bars. A minute later, a uniformed officer came to let her out of the cell.

.

.

She walked through the precinct, conscious of stares following her. The silence that's descended the moment she was led out of lockup was oppressive, and it weighted on her like a stone. Her father was nowhere to be seen. She was sure he's been ordered to take the rest of the day off when she's been brought in.

She signed for her belongings and walked out of the precinct into the blinding light of flashes and a barrage of questions thrown at her from the horde of reporters. They've probably been waiting for her from the moment the news of her arrest hit.

Stone-faced she pushed her way through and lifted her hand to hail a cab. The questions and flashes never stopped. She was half-convinced they'd follow her all the way to her apartment. They didn't. She listened to her voice mail in the back of the taxi. There was a message from Joanna, begging her to call her, and one from her father, telling her they had to talk. Nothing else.

No message from the person she wanted to hear from the most. He hadn't even come see her at the station. She'd been locked up for the better part of the day, it was all over the news. Yet, there had been no peep from or sight of Oliver Queen. She didn't expect for him to slip a file between the bars or pay her bail. She would not have minded a visit though, a sight of a familiar face that perhaps didn't look at her with contempt. Alas, not a single fuck had been given.

So much for friendship.

.

.

She knew something was off the moment she stepped inside her apartment. However, her instinct screamed at her a little too late. Someone pushed her from behind, sending her sprawling into her living room, and slammed the door behind her.

Her hands and chin smarting, she looked up, and cursed softly. No wonder he'd paid her bail. They've been waiting for her.


	2. Chapter 1

_A/N: It will soon make sense. Promise._

* * *

Caitriòna Wallace slowly opened her eyes and stretched her arms over her head with a sigh, wiggling her toes. She peeked through the window at the waning darkness outside. It was still early, but it was time to get up. Her quests were scheduled to leave today, which meant an earlier breakfast.

She threw the covers off and slowly sat up in her bed. She rolled her shoulders, stretched her neck from side to side, lifted her hands and rolled her wrists, lifted her knees up one at a time and rolled her ankles. Fully awake, she stood and padded, barefoot, to the window and opened it. The view, even after almost two years of seeing it every single day, still took her breath away. No matter the season or the weather, the view was always spectacular.

This late autumn morning has created another masterpiece. The fog was trailing its wisps along the banks of the river Spean on the back of her house, the sun gilded the peaks of the Grey Corries and Aonach Mor...It was the tip of the tail to the Indian summer they've been enjoying this year, but the chilly bite to the air and the color of the sky above the Nevis Range clearly showed the sunny days were over. Winter was coming, and with it snow and biting cold wind from the sea and along the Caledonian canal. Her guests have been lucky with their stay in Lochaber and apparently have also chosen the best day to leave.

She smiled wistfully. It was the end of another season for her B&B. The Lochaber Inn catered more to the leisure and hiking crowd than to the skiing enthusiasts, who would flock to the Nevis Range resort as soon as enough snow fell. She still got an occasional skier or snowboarder looking for affordable accommodation, but since she only had two guestrooms available, groups veered more toward the hotel than guesthouses and B&Bs. Which suited her quite well. She disliked snow puddles on her hardwood floors. And there was plenty of work to be had with Maura at the hotel needing extra pairs of hands with housekeeping chores or in the pub.

There was always something do to earn a living in Spean Bridge even with no guests around. Cait certainly wouldn't starve this winter.

.

.

She'd waived the Murdochs, a lovely couple in their late fifties, good-bye hours ago. She'd cleaned their room, done the laundry, scrubbed the wooden floors she was so proud of, and with just an hour of daylight to spare, made her way to the hotel for her and Maura's weekly dinner date.

"Come in from the cold, lassie," Maura McGinnis exclaimed as soon as Cait opened the kitchen door. "Winter sure is coming," she continued as she helped her out of the coat, "and it will bite."

Cait smiled. If she were honest, it was already biting. She was already making mental plans of searching for her woolen scarf and cap. The tips of her ears felt like they were on fire. "How are things, Maura?" she asked, kissing the older woman on the cheek.

Maura sighed something in Gaelic, then pushed her down into a chair. "I hoped for few weeks of calm, at least until the first snow, but no, I have a group checking in three days henceforth. A pre-wedding celebration, or so the girl, who made the reservation, said on the phone."

"A hen party then?"

Maura shook her head. "You would think so, but no. It's a mixed group. And an uneven number. Eleven people. How am I supposed to negotiate that?"

"You'll manage, as always, Maura," Cait assured her.

"Aye, that I will." A deep sigh. "Och, but eleven. And some are not very friendly with each other, so they faxed me the details. I felt as if I was playing a board game trying to decipher everything."

Cait laughed. "A pre-wedding party where not everybody goes along? Is the bride pregnant or something?"

"I preferred not to ask." Maura placed two plates with delicious-smelling trout on the table and indicated for Cait to dig in. "I remember the days where hen and stag parties were held separately, but I guess Americans do it differently."

Cait swallowed a bite of trout, fighting the urge to moan at the sublime taste. "Americans? What are they doing in Scotland this time of year? Summer is long gone, and the skiing season hasn't started yet."

"That I did ask. So when they arrive and gossip starts, I'll have the advantage." Maura winked. "Apparently the bride's father was of Scottish descent."

"Ah," Cait nodded. "She's exploring her roots."

Maura grimaced. "She could've done that in summer and without the groom and bridal party as an entourage."

"But what do we know," Cait continued with a chuckle. "We're just a bunch of savages who nobody understands and whose men wear skirts."

"And nothing underneath, don't forget that one, lass."

Cait sighed wistfully, remembering the first time she confirmed that sometimes Scots truly wore nothing underneath their kilts. "Who could forget?"

"Aye, your man does know how to wear his tartan, but get your mind out of the gutter, I'm eating here." Maura paused, then winked. "I'm also a widow, so don't bring out the envy in me."

"Sorry," Cait said, fighting a smile. "Will you need any help with the guests?"

"Kaylee and I can manage, darling." Maura patted her hand. "You've had a busy season. Relax for a while, enjoy your freedom while you can, breathe in some fresh air. I'm sure that when Alex returns, he won't leave you out of the house for days."

Cait felt her cheeks flame as Maura laughed. Two years ago, she would've taken offense at the insinuation, at the gossip, at the wiggling of brows everybody kept giving her ever since she's succumbed to the charms of Alexander Cameron. However, she wasn't that uptight girl anymore. She'd come to see Maura as a second mother, she'd come to know the local folk, and she'd learned that they meant nothing bad with the teasing and innuendos. They cared about her, and they wanted to see her happy. She's only recently learned that they've all played some part in Alex's offensive of her heart, they've all played matchmakers, so, as far as she was concerned, they were entitled to feeling smug. They never crossed the line, and they were genuinely happy for her. For them both.

She laughed with Maura, and the two women spent the rest of the dinner bantering and teasing each other as Cait gave silent thanks to whomever was keeping an eye on her from above. Thanking them for helping her find this safe haven. She was finally content, relaxed, and free. She was finally safe.


	3. Chapter 2

"You should've seen them, Cait," Kaylee gushed over the phone. "They're so posh if you cut them, they'd bleed blue."

Cait, Bluetooth earphone safely in place, chuckled as she stacked the wood in her garage. "Kaylee, being posh doesn't necessarily mean having blue blood."

"I know that." Kaylee sighed dramatically. "I was just making the point of them being posh. Last night, the women came down for dinner in _gowns_. In gowns, Cait, and the men wore suits. It looked like we were having a black-tie affair at the hotel."

"It's appropriate to change for dinner, Kaylee." Cait brushed her hands on her jeans and went inside for a cup of strong tea. She'd need it. Kaylee's phone-calls always took for ever.

"They already looked posh when they checked in, Cait," Kaylee insisted in a stage whisper. "The bride's mother actually had matching suitcases. Monogrammed suitcases."

Cait sat at her kitchen table and opened the tin of shortbread. This phone-call was proving to be one of the really long ones.

"You should see their make-up, it's like they're not wearing any."

Good make-up _should_ make you look natural, but Cait refrained from telling Kaylee that. The girl would probably not even hear her. She was talking so fast, she had to gulp in air to keep up.

"And the hair. And the jewels. And the shoes. Oh, Cait, the shoes. It's like Sex and the City. And, och, the men. The men. Gorgeous, handsome, sexy as hell. Och, Cait, you should come and see them."

Cait laughed softly. She had a perfect specimen of manhood coming home in a few days, and as far as she was concerned, no other man could hold a candle to Alexander Cameron. However, that didn't mean she couldn't go up to the hotel, have a bite, pop into the bar to say hello to Hamish, and maybe get a glimpse of Maura's posh guests.

She listened to Kaylee gush about said guests, their wardrobe, accessories, and looks for the next twenty minutes, while she tinkered about the house, making everything ready for her man to come home.

.

.

"So," Maura started as she took the empty plate from Cait, "Kaylee rang you up, didn't she?"

Cait grinned. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I know she did." Maura rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't have come to dinner otherwise."

Cait shrugged. "Maybe I like the food."

"You only had a sandwich."

She hadn't exactly been hungry. "A bloody good sandwich."

"Caitriòna."

Cait chuckled. "Yes, Kaylee informed me about your posh guests."

"They _are_ a little posh. Well, half of them. They obviously come from money, but they're not posh in a bad way, Cait." Maura rinsed the plate. "They're incredibly nice, even. They did look a bit out of place last night all dressed up sitting in my modest dining room staring at their plates, but none of them made a fuss about the food."

"Did you serve the haggis?"

Maura chortled. "No, I'm letting them acclimate a little."

"Let them think they're safe." Cait laughed. "I liked your devious mind. I hope you won't serve them that cake-like pish they serve the tourists for those idiotic Scottish Nights in Edinburgh."

"Oh no, dearie, they're in the Highlands, they're getting the real thing."

"I want to be a fly on the wall when that happens. What are you making them tonight? Sandwiches?" Cait asked, looking around the empty kitchen.

Maura swatted at her with a towel. "Haud yer wheesht, missy. They went to Urquhart Castle—"

"In search for Nessie? Don't they know she doesn't show her pretty face to tourists."

"—and to visit Culloden Moor. They're dining in Inverness tonight."

"I hope the ladies have some other footwear with them, high heels are a bad choice for Culloden."

"Contrary to what Kaylee told you, they did bring some sensible clothing and footwear. I saw them when they left."

"Designer, I'm sure. Nothing else would fit into matching, monogrammed suitcases."

Maura rolled her eyes. "Kaylee is a blether."

"But we love her nevertheless," Cait added and stood. "Thank you for dinner, but I should get going. Is Hamish working tonight?"

"He is. And he's busy. The bar is full. Everyone wants to get a glimpse of the Americans."

"Who knew they would be so good for business, eh?" Cait kissed Maura's cheek and left the kitchen, heading toward the bar.

It wasn't overly busy, but there were more locals than usual. Which had probably more to do with the fact Celtic was playing a Champions League game than the Americans staying at the hotel. Not that anyone at the bar tonight was a particularly avid Celtic fan, but having a Scottish club in the CL counted for something.

She wiggled her fingers at Kaylee, who was blinking coyly at her beau du jour, seemingly completely forgetting about the absentee hotel guests, and climbed on a bar stool.

"Hello, bonnie lass," Hamish greeted her from the other side of the counter, his deep voice making the brogue sound even thicker. "Usual?"

"Yes, please." She peered quickly at the TV screen. Two nil for Celtic with fifteen minutes to go. Great, but everything could still change.

"Are ye here for the Americans, too?" Hamish asked, placing a glass of cranberry juice in front of her.

She took a sip. "Unlike some, I'm not that curious. They're people like you and me. They don't breed them with two heads in the former colonies, you know."

He chuckled. "Och, you're crabbit. When is Alex comin' hame?"

Cait rolled her eyes. Why did people keep calling her cranky lately and asking about Alex in the same breath? She wasn't cranky, and even if she was it had nothing to do with Alex's absence. She didn't need a man to calm her. She didn't—It suddenly dawned on her what everybody meant, and she looked at him with wide eyes. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Hamish."

He barked out a laugh. "Yer a bit glaikit, aren't ye?"

"Who knew you were all so pervy."

"Not pervy, realistic." Hamish grinned. "So, when is he comin' hame?"

"He said Saturday."

"Two more days." He winked. "Will ye be all right or dae ye need some help?"

She flicked a walnut at him. "I can manage, thank you."

"Just offerin'."

"Shut yer trap!" Her laughter was swallowed by the cheer that rose when the referee's whistle announced the end of the football match.

Then Hamish nodded towards the door. "Here they are."

"Mom, Dad, let's grab a drink," a female voice intoned. A familiar female voice. A voice from the grave.

"Thea, honey," another female voice chimed in. "Ask your brother and Felicity if they want to join us."

_Oh, God._ Cait stared straight ahead, petrified.

A younger female voice called out, "We're grabbing a drink at the bar—"

_Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it. Please, don't say it._

"—Oliver."

Cait's heart plummeted, the quote from _Casablanca_ echoing in her head. Of all the gin joints...Oliver Queen was about to walk into her life once again.


	4. Chapter 3

_A/N: When I started writing this fic I (slightly) shipped Laurel with Oliver. I don't anymore. I just can't. And now I'm super glad I'm writing this. It's slow, but I'm getting there...And with the ending I have in mind, I must have the gift of foresight._

* * *

Laurel quickly realized that if she wanted to get out of her apartment alive, she'd have to fight dirty. No fancy self-defense moves would help against the superior weight and brute force of Blood's henchmen. So she'd reached deep inside for all the dirty moves her father had taught her, and fought dirty. She went for the groins, for the knees, for the throat...And it did her absolutely no good.

The two men have easily overpowered her, and while one of them slammed her against the floor and straddled her, the other disappeared inside her kitchen. When her straddle wrapped his meaty fingers around her throat, she smelled gas.

They were going to kill her. They were going to choke her and then cover it up by setting fire to her apartment. They were going to blow up her apartment. What about her neighbors, the apartments next to hers? Were they home? Were they in danger? Were they insured?

Then, as the man squeezed, a leer on his face as he stared into her eyes, all thoughts of her neighbors and the damage the explosion might do to their property, vanished and pure egoistic survival instinct took over.

She didn't want to die. She wasn't going to die! Not like this! Never like this! She was getting free! She might die trying, but at least she'd die knowing she did something!

She lifted the hands, that have been pawing at the fingers around her throat, above her head and reached, tried to grab something, anything that might do enough damage for the gorilla to let her go. She almost fainted in gratitude as her fingers brushed against a thin, long object underneath her sofa. She grabbed it, and thrust it upward, straight for her assailant's face.

He roared and jerked back and she saw she'd used a golden pen, the one she'd received when she'd first started working for the DA's office and promptly lost it a few days later, as a makeshift spear. It jutted almost comically out of the man's eye. There was no time for comedy, though, or for much pondering.

Pure instinct took over and she ran into her bedroom, dropped onto her knees, and pulled a small, metal box from underneath the bed. She frowned as she pressed the box to her chest. The two men haven't followed her. Her frown turned into wide-eyed fear as she heard the snap of a lighter and the slamming of the front door.

Not even thinking, she threw the box at her window and followed it immediately after the pane disintegrated. She didn't bother with the fire escape stairs, she just vaulted over the railing and jumped. She hit the platform on the story below hers the moment all her windows burst and flames rushed out, greedy for oxygen to fan them.

.

.

Laurel had spent the next year on the run, constantly looking over her shoulder, dreading the day they would catch up with her. Because they always did. That first attack had just been an appetizer, a promise of things to come. She knew too much, she'd seen too much. And she'd never been able to tell anyone, not even the Arrow, the whole story. And Sebastian Blood had made sure that even if she did, no one would believe her.

Still, she was a loose end and she needed to be taken care of.

She'd known, when she'd climbed down the fire escape and gathered her box, that she couldn't remain in the city. No one would believe her that someone had tried to kill her, anyway. She was a druggie, after all, and no one believed a druggy. She couldn't go to her father, she'd just put him in danger—and she also suspected he'd find it hard to believe her, too. She couldn't go to her friends, not that she had many, for that same reason. She could've contacted the Arrow, but having seen his reaction to her speculation the night before, she had chosen not to go through with the plan. She wouldn't know where to look for the man anyway.

So she'd split, jumped bail—like she cared—and left Starling City.

The metal box had been her salvation. It had contained a couple of fake IDs she'd used in high-school, a copy of all her real documents, a couple thousand dollars, and the key that opened a locker at the train station where a bag with a change of clothes, some more IDs, a wig, and some more money was stashed.

Maybe she had been paranoid to prepare all that, but it had paid off in the end.

She'd spent the next months waitressing her way across the country, small town to small town, identity to identity. She hadn't been able to stay anywhere for long, Blood's men always found her. She'd begun carrying a loaded gun tucked into the back of her jeans—God bless America for the loose arms laws—and a taser strapped to her ankle, and she'd always had at least a pencil in her pockets. She'd become quite proficient at disappearing after each incident, resurfacing miles away with a new identity and a new hairstyle.

Until she'd finally realized she'd never be really safe, no matter what she did, the change in appearance, the town she lived in, the identity she used...She'd never be safe, not if she kept on breathing, so she'd gathered her measly belongings and left Crystal Springs, Mississippi, before they got to her.

She needed a completely new identity, one that would hold up even under most intense scrutiny. Laurel Lance needed to die, if she already hadn't following the explosion of her apartment in Starling City—she hadn't kept up with the news—and someone else had to be born in her stead.

There was only one person who she knew could pull off such a feat. And no one, not even her father, knew of the connection between them. As far as the world was concerned, Gabriel Dougherty has never moved in Laurel Lance's orbit. He hasn't. At least not under that name. She was the only one who knew about his hacking and forging abilities. And although those abilities and his propensity to using them clashed with her principles, she'd never judged him. She suspected she's always known knowing him would come in handy someday.

It hadn't taken long to convince Gabe to help her—there were still good people in the world, and together they'd created to a woman that had absolutely nothing in common with Laurel Lance, except the facial features, eye color, and age. The girl was born on May 17th 1985 in Cumberland Infirmary in Carlisle, her parents had died in a climbing accident when she'd been twelve, and soon after graduating from Edinburgh Business School had left the UK to explore the world with her backpack. A woman whose lifelong dream had been to own a B&B in the Scottish Highlands.

Gabe had smuggled her to Europe on his private plane—God bless him for using his abilities for good and turning them into a profitable business of designing computer security for high-profile companies and corporations. In Milan's Central station he'd hugged her, wished her good luck, and slipped a padded envelope into her pocket. In it had been a scrambled phone, computer password, and the deed to a cottage on the bank of river Spean in the small town of Spean Bridge in Lochaber, Scotland.

She'd boarded the Eurostar strain bound for London as Laurel Lance—at least in her mind, she'd known she'd have to stop thinking of herself as Laurel Lance, and alighted in Edinburgh as Caitriòna Wallace.

Caitriòna Wallace who'd quickly turned her cottage in the Highlands into a modest little B&B. Caitriòna Wallace who'd spent the last two years working hard to forget the past and a life that seemed more like fiction these days. The same Caitriòna Wallace that, at the moment, sat ramrod straight on a bar stool in her quiet little town in the Scottish Highlands, hoping against hope that she was hearing things and that the man who was about to enter the bar wasn't Oliver Queen. Hoping against hope that her new, simple life would not be upset by the sudden appearance of her ex and his and her families, and that the past she's tried so hard to escape could remain buried forever.


	5. Chapter 4

Cait breathed in and out slowly, steadying her heart rate. She wouldn't panic. She didn't have any reason to panic. She was Caitrióna Wallace, after all, not Laurel Lance. She would calmly remain seated, sipped her juice, and then, when she was done, she would calmly slip off the bar stool and leave. They wouldn't even notice her.

The fact she surreptitiously checked out the exit behind the bar and calculated the time it would take her to reach it didn't mean much. Old habits die hard, she supposed. One of those old habits, one she suspected she'd never get rid of, was always sitting with her back to the wall, in a darkened corner where no one could spot her quickly, and keeping all possible exist in sight at all times.

The first to enter the bar was Sara Lance—alive and well, who would've thought, good for her, and Cait knew she hasn't been wrong earlier, associating the voices with the correct people. Dinah Drake and Quentin Lance followed their daughter, accompanied by Moira Queen, then came Thea Queen and Roy Harper, chattering merrily, holding hands, and making googly eyes at each other—at least Thea did, Roy was too much of a _tough guy_ to stoop so low.

Cait waited, knowing nothing on the outside betrayed just how edgy she felt.

And finally he appeared. Oliver Queen himself, his signature playboy grin firmly in place, with a blonde on his arm. Actually, the blonde was underneath his arm that he's slung over her shoulders. Cait shook her head minutely. Another one bites the dust. In those brief moments that they'd met, she thought Felicity Smoak to be smarter than this, a better judge of character. But despite everything, the girl has succumbed to the magical Queen charm.

_Och, lassie_.

Cait winked at Kaylee, who's been trying to get her attention for the past few minutes. Yes, she was looking at them. Yes, they were indeed posh. Yes, the women were gorgeous. Yes, the men were handsome.

Yet none of them possessed the decency to believe a family member or a friend no matter how long they've known them. Unfortunately, she was the only one who knew that one.

She chuckled softly as Hamish rolled his eyes, grumbling about spoiled Americans under his breath. He wouldn't move from behind the bar to serve them, and though she found it amusing, the fact they'd have to get their drink orders themselves, might pose a problem for her. She slowly scooted a little deeper into the shadows, and angled her body toward the main exit.

She leaned her head on her palm as Sara approached the bar, but the move must've been too abrupt.

"Laurel?"

_Bollocks_. Cait didn't move. She kept her head on her palm, her fingers around the glass, staring at her juice. She could do this, she wouldn't respond. Sara would think she'd been mistaken. All good.

Unfortunately, Sara Lance hasn't yet learned when to let go. "Oh, my God. Laurel! It is you!"

Did she have to yell? Did she really?

"Mom, Dad. Ollie!"

Great, she was calling in the troops. Did he really still respond to that idiotic nickname? Was he twelve?

As if finally noticing the blond girl at the bar was talking to her, Cait slowly lifted her head. Her face was partially in shadows so the color of her eyes wasn't discernable, and she knew she didn't look anything like Laurel Lance had when she'd left Starling City. She looked healthier. She _was_ healthier. There was more meat to her bones that gave her curves she'd never thought she could have. Her skin had lost its sallow hue, and though she was paler than before—there was no real sunbathing in the Highlands, she didn't look sickly. Her posture had changed. She dressed differently, and her hair was shorter, straighter, and darker, gathered into a thick braid. Laurel Lance had never restrained her hair, while Cait never let them hang loose. At least not in public.

"Laurel?" Dinah Drake said her eldest daughter's name reverently as she came closer. "Laurel."

"I'm sorry," Cait said, deliberately thickening her accent, disguising her voice better, "are ye talking to me?"

Hamish frowned slightly, and moved closer to her, just in case she needed help. She was thankful.

"Oh, baby." Quentin Lance stepped forward, his arms outstretched.

Cait stopped him with a lifted hand. "There must be a mistake. My name is Cait."

Nathan, the owner of the only shop in town, unfolded his large frame out of the chair. "Is there a problem?" he rumbled. "Cait, are ye okay?"

The other patrons followed suit, straightening out of their chairs, some echoing his question.

She smiled reassuringly. "I'm all right, thank you." The accent rolled off her tongue with ease. "Just a misunderstanding, I'm sure."

Quentin dropped his arms to his sides. "I'm sorry, ma'am. It's just that—" He grew silent, his eyes troubled.

"You look so very much like our daughter," Dinah explained softly.

"You could be her twin," Oliver Queen added and moved closer.

Cait didn't miss the hostile expression that passed over Felicity's features. Everything was not good in paradise, huh? She could've told her this was just the beginning, but instead said simply, "I was born like this."

Nathan roared with laughter, leaned around Oliver, and patted her on the head. "And ye're pretty as a bird, lassie."

"As pretty as a bald-heided eagle, if ye dinnae stop patting me on the heid, Nathan," she replied, earning another laugh.

Sara kept eyeing her suspiciously. "Cait, huh?"

She nodded. "Caitriòna Wallace. I run the B&B by the river."

"What about your family?"

"My parents are dead."

Maura suddenly appeared in the doorway. "We're her family," she stated firmly. "And she has no reason to participate in this interrogation."

Sara frowned. "It's not an interrogation, I'm just asking some questions."

"With what purpose?" Maura snapped.

"She looks just like my sister," Sara replied angrily. "And I find that to be too much of a coincidence."

Maura positioned herself in front of Sara, arms akimbo, determined as a mother bear protecting her cub. "I don't know about America, but here, looking similar to someone else is not a crime."

Dinah hugged her daughter. "Sara, calm down." She looked apologetically at Maura and Cait. "I'm sorry. We all are. We didn't mean to upset anyone. It's just that...You do look so much like my Laurel. It took us all by surprise." And she burst into tears.

Maura clucked. "There, there. Don't cry. I'm sure you'll find your daughter."

Quentin shook his head, holding his ex-wife close. "She's dead."

That explained why no one but Blood's henchmen bothered looking for her. Her theory proved to be correct. For everybody else Laurel Lance died in the explosion in her apartment. And the people who should've believed her in the first place, who should've suspected something was wrong, especially with her death following her release from prison, the people who should've hoped she'd somehow survived and continued looking for her, were here crying their eyes out because she'd died. Were they hoping to make amends with someone who looked like Laurel? Was that why Sara was so insistent? Was that why Oliver was staring at her so intently? Were they hoping for redemption? For forgiveness?

Screw them. It was too late for that.

Still, as Cait Wallace, she had to maintain a mask of polite indifference, or in this case polite compassion, so she forced her facial muscles to move into what she hoped was an appropriately contrite mask. "I'm very sorry," she murmured and received stiff nods in return as they moved back toward their table.

The only one left was Oliver Queen, his eyes running intently over her face and down her body. She wanted nothing more than to punch him, but that wouldn't do. To Cait, he was a stranger, and people didn't go around punching people in the face.

"There you are."

The deep, rich baritone slid over her nerve endings like a balm, making her blood slow, her limbs tingle, and heat slowly pool in her stomach. Alexander Cameron filled the doorway, capturing her full attention, drawing her in like a moth to a flame.

"What are you doing here?" she asked breathlessly.

Alex grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling endearingly. "Is that the greeting I get after being away for so long?"

He stepped leisurely in, brushed past Oliver, and then he was in front of her. He pulled her knees apart, stepping between her thighs, curled one hand around her nape, the other arm around her waist, and captured her lips in a kiss that made little electric shocks zing through her body. She lifted her arms to circle his neck, pulled him closer yet, and let him deepen the kiss, the Americans completely forgotten. She couldn't think of anything when she was in Alex's arms, except how good it felt to be there.

When he finally ended the kiss and lifted his head, she was breathless, hot, and trembling.

"Now, this is the greeting I was looking for," he murmured against her lips.

"And ye sure found it," Hamish chuckled.

Cait couldn't muster the will to blush or push Alex away. His arm around her waist was the only thing preventing her from falling off the stool.

"I missed you," Alex said softly.

"I missed you, too," she replied just as softly.

"We missed you, too, Alasdair," Maura said with a grin. "A little less than Cait, though."

"A lot less," Nathan amended and the others laughed.

"You better," Alex replied with a chuckle. "Now, if you'll excuse us." He lifted her easily into his arms, and quickly carried her out.

The image of Oliver Queen's eyes boring into hers remained on the outskirts of her mind long after they left the hotel.


End file.
